


The Iceman

by Neurotoxia



Series: Nights of Christmas Past [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Family Dinner, Gen, Introspection, Mycroft-centric, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Canon, Young Holmes Brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes’ belief in tradition is firm and unshakeable -- unless his brother proves again it is but a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Iceman

**Author's Note:**

> The third and second-to-last installment of the Nights of Christmas Past Series. It is ridiculously late, but since the fic isn't overly Christmas-themed, I find it's not too strange to read in the middle of March. All fics in the series intersect with each other, but can stand on their own. No knowledge of the other parts is required.
> 
> As usual, [](http://penombrelilas.livejournal.com/profile)[**penombrelilas**](http://penombrelilas.livejournal.com/) sorted out my mess with a firm hand and kind words, for which they deserve a medal. Other than that, [](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/)**arianedevere** 's transcript for A Scandal in Belgravia proved to be a helpful and time-saving resource.

# I.

  


* * *

  
“Sherlock, whatever it is that you think requires your attention, would you please stop and just get inside?”

Mycroft stood in the middle of one of the Holmes’ estate’s perfectly manicured lawns currently covered in five inches of snow, clothes decidedly not suited for being outside in freezing weather. The reason for that of course being his younger brother waltzing through the winter landscape coated in white, powdery flakes, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Sod off, Mycroft!”

Mycroft sighed. Every time he visited, Sherlock became more difficult to handle. Their parents were displeased that a ten-year-old Sherlock was no easier on the nerves than a five-year-old. At least Mycroft could get through to him to a certain extent.

“Sherlock, dinner is almost ready and you know you will upset Mummy if you’re late for it.” His tone was stern on purpose - clipped and stressed on the upset. This tone usually caught Sherlock’s attention. Mycroft would rather he sat in front of the fireplace with a cup of tea and teach Sherlock new techniques for observing people and drawing conclusions while waiting for dinner. The nannies and tutors were incapable of putting Sherlock’s brain to good use and their parents, who were intelligent enough to challenge Sherlock, were away often. Not that Mycroft was around much either these days -- boarding school put time constraints on a person.

“But I’m not even hungry and I’m conducting an important experiment!” Sherlock huffed and continued to dig in the snow.

“Another experiment, Sherlock? Your whole room is filled with half-finished experiments, so it’s safe to assume that this one can wait as well.”

Mycroft tried to pull his thin jacket closer around himself. He couldn’t close it anymore which irritated him more than it should. His metabolism apparently wasn’t on his side on the matter.

“This one is important, Mycroft! I want to know how fast small animals freeze when deposited outside in snow and temperatures below zero.” As if to prove his point, Sherlock held up a dead mouse by its tail and looked expectantly at his brother.

“Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock! The snow will still be here tomorrow, as will your dead rodents!”

“But Mycroft!” Sherlock whined. “Christmas dinner is _dull_ and _pointless_ , and I can’t stand Aunt Margaret. She’s an idiot!”

Mycroft couldn’t argue with his brother’s objections. Christmas dinner _was_ tedious -- everything felt forced because their family had no idea how to spend a full evening in each other’s company. Sherlock would become bored within minutes and not refrain from informing everyone in the room of it. Thus their parents would become upset, send Sherlock to his room and leave Mycroft to deal with him. Aunt Margaret would spend the whole evening inflicting her opinions on everyone; opinions that were either repetitions of already well-known facts or pointless, hackneyed sayings .

“I know, Sherlock. But it doesn’t matter, it’s tradition. Come inside and I’ll help you set up the experiment properly tomorrow. If you just throw mice randomly into the snow, you won’t gain any meaningful data.”

Sherlock seemed to contemplate the proposal before huffing once more and throwing the dead mouse over his shoulder and make his way back through the snow towards Mycroft.

“Fine. But if you tell me to be nice to Aunt Margaret, I’ll steal your dessert.”

“Not to worry, Sherlock”, Mycroft murmured and made his way back to the house with his pouting brother in tow. Now where to get a dozen dead rodents until tomorrow?

 

 

 

# II.

  


* * *

  
Mycroft wasn’t a man of poetry, but at the moment he understood well what authors tried to convey with all the metaphors about a silence so thick and heavy it enabled you to cut it with a knife. It certainly applied to this evening.

His mother, his aunt and Mycroft himself had spent much of the time in uncomfortable silence. Now it was hovering over the dinner table and only disturbed by the occasional clatter of silver cutlery on gold-rimmed bone china. Christmas had always been an uneasy affair, grown forced over father’s departure with his mistress and become even more forced and staged the older Mycroft got. This year’s tension, however, was yet to be rivaled.

Yes, he had urged Mummy to cut Sherlock off from the family money. The money he had been throwing at shady creatures with a penchant for narcotics. His move had worsened their relationship further, but Mycroft preferred a Sherlock that never talked to him again to a dead Sherlock.

His brother had been livid upon the discovery that no ATM would give him money and marched into Mycroft’s home to call him every colourful name he could think of. Sherlock had tried to punch him in the end, but Mycroft had evaded with ease. Seeing that there was no reasoning with Sherlock, Mycroft had thrown him out with the advice to pull himself together, and maybe then he would be granted access to the money again. Of course Mycroft knew that this wouldn’t magically inspire Sherlock to sober up but he didn’t have to make it even easier for him to get his hands on as much as he wanted at any time that he wanted.

“It’s a pity that Sherlock isn’t here,” his mother spoke and dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

Did they have to go over this again? “He was in no condition to attend dinner.”

“He shouldn’t be on his own when he’s this ill.”

Their mother liked to refer to Sherlock’s addiction as an illness, which might technically be true, but Mycroft knew she didn’t like to admit that her son voluntarily shot cocaine up his veins. It damaged the family name, but Mycroft thought it was ridiculous, handling the topic in such a delicate manner when everyone attending dinner was aware what Sherlock’s “illness” was. In Mummy’s opinion, Sherlock was too bright for such antics. Mycroft, however, was convinced that being too bright was in fact the root of the problem.

“It’s not as if Sherlock is particularly fond of company, Mummy.” Mycroft’s voice was dismissive. Mummy, to her convenience, forgot that Sherlock had always been an antisocial, misbehaved brat with no regard for manners or conventions.

Sherlock was Mummy’s favourite and he always had been. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had a close relationship with their parents, having grown up around nannies and house staff, then having been shipped off to boarding school as soon as possible. While both sons grew up to be geniuses, their parents never had to worry about Mycroft. He managed to master the behaviour expected of their social class. He had never been a troublemaker. Although he didn’t care much about people, Mycroft had found it easy to blend in -- the general public wasn’t very perceptive about whether or not he truly cared. He had brought home excellent grades, an excellent reputation and an excellent job, just as his parents had expected.

Mycroft was a creature of shadows, moving about unnoticed, his existence almost forgotten. He was the puppeteer, pulling strings in the background and making people dance without them noticing. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a creature of dramatic lighting and grand entrances, the main actor of his own drama. The genius unwilling to blend in unless it furthered his interests.

“That child has always managed to get into trouble. He could have used more discipline!” Aunt Margaret chimed in, unhelpful as usual. Mycroft really disliked her.

 _You know that Sherlock’s response to more discipline was always more chaos_ , he thought, not dignifying her rambling with an actual answer. _With him, there is no simple solution_. As much as he disapproved of Sherlock’s childish behaviour, his animosity for their aunt won out over it.

“In my days, it wouldn’t have been like this,” she continued and shook her head.

“Of course not,” answered Mycroft in a flat voice. Arguing with Margaret was as futile as it was tedious and Mycroft didn’t relish another argument this evening.

“I am sure Sherlock will come around, Margaret.” Mummy sounded almost convinced as she said it. Had Mycroft had any lesser manners, he would have laughed at her. Sherlock would never become a functioning member of society, cocaine or not. He simply did not want to.

Aunt Margaret looked doubtful but seemed to decide not to press the matter. “We’ll see about that, Agnes,” she simply said.

“Yes, we shall see,” Mycroft agreed but Mummy eyed him with suspicion over her glass of wine. It was unfortunate that she could tell when Mycroft was being insincere. He needed to work on this.

“You are responsible for him, Mycroft. If you had kept a closer eye on him, maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.”

Mycroft felt a stab of anger and gripped his fork tighter. Of course it was his fault again. Mummy didn’t expect anything less than excellence of him and his watching over Sherlock wasn’t perceived as such.

“Sherlock is an adult. I cannot keep him under twenty-four-hour surveillance. He is set on slipping under my radar. He makes his own choices and I am not able to anticipate every bad decision he is about to make and counteract it. Do you think he would allow me to interfere even more with his life? I can only do so much before he would go and try to evade me altogether which would put us in an even less desirable position. I keep an eye on him, but I am _not_ his babysitter.”

Mycroft had thrown his napkin on the table. His words had come out harsh. He had lost his temper; a rare slip on his part. This shouldn’t have happened. “Excuse me,” he said with as much dignity as possible before he stood up and exited the room, leaving behind a scandalised mother and aunt.

It was like Sherlock to disrupt family dinner without even being present. He would be proud if he knew.

 

 

 

# III.

  


* * *

  
Silence, at last. Mycroft leaned back in one of the antique chairs in front of the fireplace, a pot of his favorite tea and a glass of fine brandy within his reach. Maybe later, he would indulge in listening to Gustav Holst’s _The Planets_ or Richard Wagner’s _Götterdämmerung_ \-- for now, complete silence was exactly what he wanted.

Mycroft had even sent the household staff home which was mutually beneficent: They preferred to go home to their families and Mycroft preferred to be left alone. He could manage a pot of tea if he needed another one.

Mummy hadn’t been pleased that both her sons had cancelled for Christmas dinner. Mycroft had used the tone he normally reserved for foreign diplomats to express his regrets over the phone. There were pressing matters to attend -- the country didn’t run itself. Bond Air, the delicate case of Irene Adler’s compromising pictures, keeping overseas wars running and stopping new ones from breaking out.

Not that Sherlock had cancelled with their mother in person, he’d left the undesirable task to Mycroft. Mummy had anticipated that Sherlock wouldn’t attend if Mycroft didn’t since it was always Mycroft who dragged Sherlock into a car and out of London for the festivities. His younger brother was determined to try and find new ways to get out of Christmas dinner. A pity for him that Mycroft was just as stubborn and had more material to blackmail Sherlock with. This year though, Sherlock held his own celebrations for the first time. No doubt that it had been John Watson’s idea, but Mycroft could see Sherlock jumping at the chance to get out of family dinner.

Mycroft didn’t particularly cherish Christmas dinner either -- sentimental drivel with tedious family members -- but he believed in the importance of tradition. Until their mother would die, Mycroft would honour her tradition, unless his presence was required in London with as much urgency as this year. Sherlock, on the other hand, regarded family tradition with scorn and contempt.

Considering that his brother was the black sheep of the family, it wasn’t surprising Sherlock tried to stay away as much as possible. Mycroft had protected Sherlock when he was younger, had even risked getting into arguments with their parents, aunts and cousins to make sure they left him alone. When it had become clear that Sherlock wouldn’t do anything to make life easier for himself -- respect boundaries, social cues or at least act as if he did, Mycroft found it tiring to remain as openly protective. Not to mention it became difficult when Sherlock started to despise him as well.

Sherlock was best left alone, but not without supervision. And Mycroft would worry too much to leave him entirely to his own devices. If Mycroft cared about anyone, it would be Sherlock, as much as his brother tried to make it difficult.

Mycroft sighed and poured himself another cup of tea, a Silver Tips Darjeeling, flown in straight out of India, and allowed himself to take a deep breath and enjoy the smell of the fine leaves. If he could pass this evening in complete, undisturbed silence, this would be an ideal holiday. With a party to keep him busy, even Sherlock should be able to stay out of trouble for a day. It would be in their best interests.

All of a sudden, Mycroft’s private mobile phone rang on the oak table next to him, and if he were a man of lesser manners, he would have allowed himself to groan. Of course there would be a disturbance. The fact that the screen announced Sherlock did not make him feel any less bitter about it -- even more, if possible.

“Oh dear Lord. We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?”

Before the call was over, Mycroft Holmes was mentally out of his armchair. He granted himself a thoughtful look out of the window before getting up and leaving tea, fireplace and a calm night behind without a second thought.

 

 

 

 

# IV.

  


* * *

  
Christmas season was a busy time for Mycroft, once again. Various crises all over the globe -- the fall of dictators, economic depression, public outcry over wayward government servants -- and one continued crisis by the name of Sherlock Holmes kept him busier than ever before in late December.

He had paid Mummy a short visit a few days ago after coming to the conclusion that it was necessary after the distress Sherlock’s supposed death had caused her. She had taken it well, but that was expected of a woman of her social standing. With his early visit, Mycroft had at least avoided the bulk of the family, many of which would use their time on Christmas to reassure each other how it came not as a surprise that the troublesome Sherlock Holmes had found his way into an early grave. Mycroft knew he would find watching the pack of hyenas more than distasteful.

Only three members of his staff knew that Sherlock was still alive and chasing after Moriarty’s criminal network. It was a secret operation of the highest level, so no files, no funding and no records existed -- Mycroft didn’t even allow his employees to write any such thing as a post-it note. Anything below double-encrypted codes unknown to even military intelligence was unacceptable. Mycroft now thought it was a good thing that he and Sherlock had developed several codes and ciphers during childhood. With a few adjustments, he ensured that no one who wasn’t in possession of highly advanced intelligence technology and hundreds of cryptography specialists could break through them. Sherlock was clever enough to recognise the old codes and deduce the changes, although it always took him a bit of time -- Mycroft secretly enjoyed that his little brother couldn’t decipher his messages within the blink of an eye. His schadenfreude might seem out of place, but Mycroft was still displeased with the Bond Air disaster. It had taught him a valuable lesson about encryption.

Several days ago, the pathologist that had aided in Sherlock’s disappearance -- Molly Hooper -- had come to his office and asked for his brother’s current whereabouts since she wanted to send Sherlock something for Christmas. Miss Hooper had stuttered about wanting to give him a present hoping it would make him feel less lonely because it was Christmas and none of his friends knew that he was alive.

Mycroft had been surprised by the request. Miss Hooper had had a hopeless infatuation with Sherlock for a long time, but he sensed something had changed in her. It was less the request of a lovestruck woman yearning to seek reciprocation through gifts, but more genuine concern over a friend. Given her involvement in Sherlock’s disappearance, Mycroft concluded that she had become part of Sherlock’s social circle. Also, she was more perceptive than she gave away at first glance.

Sherlock was emotional, very much so, no matter how hard he tried to be a machine. Before John Watson, his brother had been a lonely man who had embraced and despised loneliness at the same time. Mycroft assumed that Sherlock missed his only friend (although the term wasn’t quite fitting for their extraordinary codependency), his home and his work, if you could call his little hobby that. It was likely that he hated every minute of his mission and even more at a time like Christmas, the most emotional time of the year. Sentiment, a curious thing. If one thought about it, it was sentiment that had brought on the whole fiasco in the first place.

In the end, Mycroft had granted Miss Hooper’s request, taking the soft package wrapped in midnight blue paper with a silver bow from her and promised it would reach Sherlock. His brother had no permanent base or name, the postal services wouldn’t be very helpful. Normally, Mycroft would not have authorised having packages delivered to Sherlock in order to avoid any danger, but he sensed that it would not only put Miss Hooper’s mind to rest, but also his own. Mycroft feared that his brother was constantly tethering on the edge and any tangible connection to his old life would lessen the chances of Sherlock driving himself mad, or start the drugs again, or both. Molly Hooper might not be the closest of his acquaintances, but close enough that he had trusted her to keep his secret. The present might help -- Mycroft hoped so. It should have reached his brother in time for Christmas.

Mycroft’s team had been hunting leads on a money laundering circle with ties to Moriarty in Prague but information only trickled in at a slow pace, making it impossible for Sherlock to move forward yet. The holidays slowed down even Mycroft’s considerable reach in Eastern Europe and he couldn’t dig any deeper without risking diplomatic inquiries. At the moment, Sherlock was stuck playing a Frenchman on holidays since his investigations had not yielded any results yet either.

He glanced at a few notes that would be burned in the fireplace later. Moriarty’s web was elusive, the man had organised his network without obvious flaws, making it hard to trace anything back to him. Mycroft would have set up a criminal organisation just the same way. There was no question that Moriarty had had a brilliant mind -- possibly as brilliant as his own. The thought was unsettling, so he threw the page in the fire and looked at the remaining sheet. During the operation he had come across a name: Moran. Mycroft had not been able to find any leads on the person. Not even their gender and in which capacity this Moran (had) worked for the network. Or if he or she was involved at all.

Nonetheless, it was the only possible hint he had. It couldn’t hurt to let Sherlock know.

> From: [undisclosed sender]  
> To: [undisclosed recipient]  
>  Subject: Insecticide  
>  Message: _The name Moran has come up twice._  
> 

> From: [undisclosed sender]  
> To: [undisclosed recipient]  
>  Subject: Re: Insecticide  
>  Message: _Shouldn’t you be eating pudding somewhere?_  
> 

> From: [undisclosed sender]  
> To: [undisclosed recipient]  
>  Subject: Re: Re: Insecticide  
>  Message: _Merry Christmas_  
> 

No answer came which didn’t surprise him. In fact, he felt relieved. If Sherlock had written back with Christmas greetings on his own, Mycroft would have worried. But as long as his brother continued to taunt him, he could count on Sherlock’s fighting spirit.

Hoping the lead would prove useful and end this business as fast as possible, Mycroft burned the last sheet in the fireplace, watching the flames eat away at the paper.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Knitting Lives Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/591956) by [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon)




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